


A black speck downward drifting

by Pyracantha



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Comfort, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cumulonimbus, Flying, M/M, On clouds, Post-Canon, South Downs, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:07:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27719312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyracantha/pseuds/Pyracantha
Summary: Sometimes you need some time to soar on your own just to know you can.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29
Collections: NTA #10 - GO Events Server - Cumulonimbus





	A black speck downward drifting

**Author's Note:**

> This was my prompt for a Name That Author game for the GO Events Server. Big thank yous to everyone who wrote a piece for it! Thanks for playing on my cloud! 
> 
> Prompt: Cumulonimbus  
> GO Events Server NTA #10  
> Title from The Eagle by e. e. cummings

_I looked to the heavens and saw him there,—_   
_A black speck downward drifting,_   
_Nearer and nearer he steadily sailed,_   
_Nearer and nearer he slid through space,_   
_In an unending aerial race,_   
_This sailor who hailed_   
_From the Clime of the Clouds.—Ever shifting,_

_On billows of air_   
_And the blue sky seemed never so fair,_   
_And the rest of the world kept pace. *_

He wakes to an empty bed. Awareness coming slowly. First warmth, heaviness, then shifting to feel the coolness of the opposite side. Gone for a while then. He lifts his head and takes in the blueness of the morning light. It’s chilly in the house. Fires reserved for the downstairs.

Luckily he insisted on heated floors when they moved here. A luxury he could have never imagined in the earlier centuries and he still marvels at it a bit when he steps out of bed onto the warmth of the floor. Heated just to the perfect body temperature.

Like the house is a living thing.

He wrangles his hair out of his face with a hair tie from his wrist. Walking into the one other luxury he had insisted on, the large bathroom.

He sees his face, sleep slack, expression content which always surprises a half smile. The early light is gentle and he splashes his face awake. With a thought he’s dressed in his jeans and boots but with a midnight blue shirt, open at the neck.

Aziraphale has been gifting him clothes in actual colours so he can pretend to be annoyed, but he wears every single thing. As he heads downstairs he snags a large threadbare grey sweater from the chair.

It’s the angel’s and he never wastes a chance to wear his clothes. They are comfortable and well cared for. This one is only threadbare due to age. Someone had knitted it in 1868 and the wool has worn down to a soft felting in some places. It’s warm and soft and that’s enough for him.

It smells of books, ink, dust, and faint traces of honeysuckle and lightning and now just a little bit of Crowley’s scent mixed in. That’s actually his favorite smell, the smell of the two of them mingled like ink swirled in water, until you can’t separate them.

Downstairs is dim in the pale light but he can see that the back door is open. Just a smidge, as if it was closed in haste. He opens it fully and sees the pathway is outlined in dew drops, disturbed by an angel walking through. An angel heading for the cliffs.

Crowley follows as he always will.

It’s quiet walking through the little copse of woods to get to the great chalk cliffs. They glow in the morning light. No one is there now. The wind rises off the sea, cool and grey. The taste of salt ever present in the air.

He closes his eyes and breathes it in, listens to the waves on the shore, the sound never ceasing, calming. It’s a beautiful song. He waits in the music of the sea and sky.

After a few quiet moments he lifts his eyes.

It’s clear here but off in the distance he can see the clouds to precede a storm. They are darker at the bottom but they are starting to turn the pale pink of the sunrise.

High above he can see a small dark dot. It is making lazy circles that sometimes swoop out into parabolas. Like the creature is being rocked against its mother’s breast. A lullaby in flight.

Crowley breathes deeply as he watches, his golden eyes focused on the falling dot as it grows closer and he can see his beloved's white wings spread wide to catch the wind.

Seeing Aziraphale soar makes his heart ache. It’s not something he does often and he prefers to do it alone. Crowley will give Aziraphale anything at all and he knows the angel needs the space to decompress from Heaven’s cage. Though his wings tremble with the desire to leap up and join him in his peaceful pattern.

Crowley memorizes the image of the angel silhouetted against the far off cumulonimbus, wings wide, and iridescent in the rising sun. He will hold it in his heart and one day the wings against the cloud will include his as well.

He takes one more lungful of the briny morning and turns back towards the house.

He can stoke the fire and make sure the cocoa and brioche toast with butter are waiting when his angel returns. Welcoming him back to the warm embrace of home and the arms of his love.

Love like the clouds and the sea, unceasing, eternal as the tides, limned in gold and full of power and peace.  
  


* cummings, e.e. The Eagle. Stanza 2.


End file.
